Grilling the Subject

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Are you sure? A hair stick was used to murder Sylvia.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that. Not Ava’s best look, by the way. She has too narrow a face. She should always let her hair hang loose. In any case, there she was, carrying a flashlight and a big duffel over her shoulder.”

  “A duffel?”

  “If you ask me, she looked like she was ready to break into someone’s house and steal the family jewels.”

  Or murder someone. “Why didn’t you report her?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Flora not wanting a piece of the limelight.

  “Well, she’s a Realtor. At the time, I felt she belonged—”

  The guitar music stopped. Applause rang out from the crowd.

  “Oh, Frederick’s done,” Flora said, not finishing her thought. “Away we go! He has another gig. Sundays are his busiest days. Thanks again for hiring him. He needs all the jobs he can get. Ciao.” She flitted away faster than a hummingbird.

  I fetched my tote and fished out my cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Calling Cinnamon to fill her in.”

  “With more hearsay?”

  “With an eyewitness account, plus I should tell her about what I read in the diary.” I dialed the precinct. “Busy,” I muttered and stabbed End. “What is going on at that place?”

  “I would imagine the police have plenty of disorderly calls to handle because of today’s Amazing Americana Bash. There’s free beer. Let’s tell Cinnamon in person. Tonight. She’s coming to dinner to celebrate your father’s freedom.”

  “But that’s six hours from now.”

  “Ava is not leaving town any time soon, and simply writing in a diary or being in the neighborhood—”

  “Carrying a duffel.”

  “Carrying a duffel,” she repeated, “does not convict her. In the meantime, breathe”—Aunt Vera hooked her arm through mine—“and come with me. I have something for you.” She led me to the counter. She picked up a silver-wrapped, square box, about nine inches by nine inches. “This was sitting by the front door this morning. It’s for you.”

  “Are you sure?” A few months ago, a secret admirer had left a rash of packages; none had been for me.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Your name is on it.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “No idea,” Aunt Vera said, but she was smirking. Had she steamed open the tiny envelope that was affixed to the box? The devil. “Open it.”

  I plucked the envelope off the gift and withdrew the card:

  Jenna, I’m sorry. I went off half-cocked. Forgive me? ~ Rhett

  Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. Of course I would. I never hold a grudge. Well, usually never. Once, back in high school, I did harbor a grudge after a frenemy hid a pile of springy paper snakes in my locker, which, when I opened the locker, leaped out at me and made me scream loudly enough to earn detention. And, of course, I was holding another grudge. Now. Against David for breaking my heart and reemerging in my life as if nothing had happened.

  “Open it!” my aunt ordered.

  I ripped off the wrapping and pulled off the top of the box. Wads of tissue paper. Lots of wads.

  Bailey joined us and peered over my shoulder. “From Rhett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yay! Is it a ring?”

  “A r-ring,” I stammered. He wouldn’t propose this way, would he, and not on bent knee, in some intimate place? Sheesh. I tossed the tissue right and left.

  By this time, a crowd had circled us. Mostly mothers. The children were galloping in the corner; some had found hobbyhorses to ride. Where had those come from?

  “Come on,” Bailey urged.

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” When I reached the bottom of the box, I found nothing. Zero. Zip! “It’s empty.”

  “Can’t be.” Bailey scoured through the wads of tissue on the floor. A few of the mothers helped out. “Got it!” Bailey chimed. She placed a small square of tissue in her palm and offered it to me solemnly.

  I unwrapped the square and gaped.

  “What is it?” Bailey asked.

  It wasn’t a ring; it was a lure. A fishing lure. A really pretty green-and-blue one with feathers and . . .

  “Not a ring,” I said. A pinch of sorrow nipped my heart.

  The crowd offered a collective sigh.

  Bailey signaled them to move on. “Shop! Buy things!” They obeyed. She whispered to me, “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t want to read anything into it,” I said. And I didn’t. Rhett left town. Maybe he went fishing. Maybe he wanted me to join him. Or maybe he was back in town. At Bait and Switch. Perhaps he wanted me to come to the store. I glanced at the note again. The handwriting was a pretty scrawl; not his. The sporty saleswoman at the store must have written it for him.

  “It’s very cryptic,” my aunt said. “Let me do a reading for you.”

  “No. Don’t. I need space. I need time to think. I—” I sighed. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee.”

  Chapter 22

  Sitting at a table in the Nook Café kitchen with a cup of coffee and a big slice of chocolate fudge cake—one of Katie’s specialties that melted in my mouth—I deliberated about the lure Rhett had sent me: its meaning, his intent. Coming up empty, I finally caved in and called him. The call rolled into voice mail, and I nearly threw my telephone at the wall. Why own a cell phone if you aren’t going to answer?

  Katie swooped into a chair opposite me. She pulled off a pair of oven mitts and folded her arms on the table. She didn’t say a word. She could be agonizingly patient, so unlike me.

  After a long moment of feeling her gaze on me, I spilled everything. My frustration with Rhett. My exasperation with David and the dilemma he had caused. My annoyance with Cinnamon and the precinct and their newfangled telephone system. She suggested I call 911. I replied that I wasn’t about to be the person who clogged up that important line.

  When I finished ranting, Katie said, “Life comes at us hard sometimes.”

  I gave her the evil eye. “That’s a Dad-ism if I ever heard one.”

  She chortled. “Yes, it is. He was in a moment ago, picking up pies for your Sunday dinner dessert.”

  “Aren’t you joining us?” I asked. When she did, she always brought sweets.

  “Nope. I’ve got a hot date with Keller.” She stacked one oven mitt on top of the other and fixed them so the fingers were pointing at me. “Do you know what I do when I’m irked about everything?”

  “You never get irked.”

  “But when I do, I bake. Want to help me?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you do.” She pushed the mitts at me. “On your feet.”

  I spent the next few hours shadowing her while she created a dozen chocolate cakes. She never baked one huge restaurant-sized cake; she always preferred the individual size. Better flavor, she told me. First, she melted the chocolate in a double boiler. The aroma was heavenly. Then she whisked the eggs and milk and vanilla, moving seamlessly around her corner of the kitchen. While I watched, I considered giving myself a week’s vacation so I could trail her and learn.

  After she allowed me to ice one of the cakes—my swirling technique using a flat knife was getting better but definitely not restaurant quality—it was time to close up The Cookbook Nook. Surprisingly Aunt Vera and Bailey hadn’t missed me a bit! With yet no message from Rhett—what was up with that?—I fetched my lure and sped home.

  I found David lying on his side on the couch, sound asleep. Tigger was curled between David and the back of the couch. Had David fallen asleep on purpose to avoid having to join me for dinner and be subjected to my family’s questions? Tigger lifted his head, his eyes wide. I put a finger over my mouth and whispered for him to lie back down, but he didn’t obey. As if he knew David was faking, he dug h
is paws into him.

  That got David’s attention. “Yeow,” he said. “Stop, kitty!”

  Tigger pounced to the floor, mission accomplished.

  David blinked when he saw me. “Hey, Jenna.”

  “Were you really sleeping?”

  He sat up and stretched. Big fake yawn. “Yeah, sure.” He glanced at his watch. “Whoa, is that the time?”

  “Let’s go. Dinner.”

  “No rest for the weary,” he joked.

  I was shocked that as sick as David was he had a sense of humor. Oh, the things I missed from our marriage, when we were happy and carefree. Was now the time to discuss our divorce? No, I didn’t want to be late to dinner. We could talk later.

  “Dad wants to see you,” I said.

  “Grill me, you mean.”

  “Rake you over the coals might be more apt.”

  “Touché.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “I need to clean up, hon. I don’t want your dad thinking I’m a bum any more than he already does.”

  While David went into the bathroom, I sat at my vanity and freshened my makeup. As I brushed through my hair, I heard my mother’s voice in my head: Fresh is as fresh does. She always seemed put together and smelled of gardenias. Taking her cue, I switched out of my tired orange blouse and capris, threw on a cream-colored sheath, and spritzed myself with White Shoulders perfume.

  Minutes later, David emerged, dressed in a striped shirt and trousers, his day-old beard shaved, hair brushed. He spread his arms and did a quarter turn. “How do I look?”

  “Better.” I didn’t say good, although even sick and pale, David would always look good.

  I retrieved two bottles of zinfandel from my mini wine refrigerator, my contribution to dinner, and, with David by my side, walked to my aunt’s house.

  “We’re here!” I shouted as we entered.

  The zesty aromas that met us were incredible. Aunt Vera had told me ahead of time what she was preparing for the meal: Tex-Mex, including fish tacos, tamales made with pinto beans, chicken enchiladas, extra-heavy on the cheddar cheese, and a crisp green salad with a savory chipotle dressing. My mouth started to water.

  Aunt Vera poked her head out from the kitchen. “Hello, dear,” she said in singsong fashion. “Hello, David. Nice to see you again.” She acted as though he had never gone missing, which was quite miraculous when you consider how much she loved me and how his “death” had crushed me.

  “Vera.” He bowed his head in deference. “Lovely caftan.”

  She ran a hand along the seam of her gold-and-sea-green filigreed dress. “This old thing?” It wasn’t old. She had bought it in January. “Thank you.” She fluttered her fingers in the direction of the backyard. “The others are on the patio.”

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “No, dear. I’ve got it.”

  The French doors leading from the dining room to the patio were wide open. As we passed through, I drew in a sharp breath. The ocean. So blue. So vast. When I first returned to Crystal Cove, I could barely look at the ocean without thinking of David and how he had died. Soon, however, I was able to draw strength and inspiration from the sea’s steady ebb and flow. Now, with David standing next to me and my father glowering at us, I felt rattled.

  Lola, who was sitting on the wicker settee with my father and looking radiant, as always, said, “Jenna, are you all right? You’re as pale as your dress.”

  “I’m fine.” Regular breaths, I reminded myself. In and out. And from now on, always wear hot pink. The color would reflect into my cheeks and fool everyone. “Here, Dad.” I offered him the wine. If I gave him a chore, maybe his accusatory gaze would soften.

  He moved to the wet bar to uncork one of the bottles. While he did, he peeked at David. “You look fine, son,” he said. Cold. Aloof. Lying through his teeth.

  “I’m not,” David quipped, no pity for himself in his tone.

  “David,” I hissed.

  “You made me come.”

  “Stop, everyone,” Lola said. “Let’s all act civil. David, I’m Lola.”

  He said, “I remember. Jenna and I went to your restaurant once when I visited town.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured.

  “I loved the food. I ordered the fried shrimp.”

  “Our specialty.”

  My aunt’s porch was set up in a cozy conversation style. Lots of chairs, each with a good view of the water. I sat in a wicker armchair fitted with cushions that were covered in a red Hawaiian fabric. David chose the blue counterpart.

  Seconds after we sat, Aunt Vera arrived with a tortilla-chips-and-dip platter, the center bowl filled with a heaping amount of homemade guacamole.

  “Ooh,” Lola exclaimed.

  “Ooh, yourself,” Aunt Vera said. “Look at that.” She set the platter on the coffee table and pointed at the horizon.

  The sun hadn’t fully set. Orange-tinged clouds filled the sky. Off in the distance, a group on the beach lit a bonfire. The blaze added to the ambiance.

  My father crossed to me with a glass of wine. “David, will you be drinking?”

  “No, sir. Water’s fine.”

  “Vera?”

  “The same. Water.”

  Dad poured each of them a drink from a pitcher on the wet bar, then poured two more glasses of wine, one for Lola and one for himself. He retook his seat beside Lola.

  Silence fell over us.

  I lifted a tortilla chip and scooped up a bite of guacamole. “Mmm, Aunt Vera. This is tasty. Avocado, tomato, onion, a dash of lemon, and what else? White pepper?”

  “Jenna, I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. You gave me the recipe, and I make it at least once a week.”

  She laughed. “Clever girl.”

  “Where’s Rhett, Jenna?” Lola sipped her wine.

  My father cut her a look. My aunt did, as well. David, too.

  “On a last-minute trip out of town,” I said.

  “Hello-o-o!” Cinnamon, dressed in an emerald-green blouse, white slacks, a cross-body white purse, and a pair of white strappy sandals—I couldn’t ever remember her looking so trendy—emerged through the patio doors. She raised a bottle of California sparkling wine in the air. “Time to celebrate!” She noticed David and tilted her head. “Well, hi. You’re the friend, right? It’s”—she made quotation marks with her fingers without losing her grip on the bottle—“complicated.”

  “Good memory.” He didn’t elaborate.

  “Got a name?”

  “Call me Dave.” Not David. “Can I call you Cinnamon?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at me.

  Apparently, my father had kept his mouth shut about my husband coming back to life. I would keep quiet, too. The police in San Francisco had it handled, although I would bet the wheels in Cinnamon’s brain were trying to conjure up how she knew “Dave.” Perhaps she had seen his picture in the paper when she considered me a suspect in my friend’s death and rummaged through my history?

  I extended a hand for the sparkling wine. “Let me open that, Cinnamon. Aunt Vera, champagne glasses!”

  My aunt shuffled into the house and returned in less than a minute with the champagne flutes I had given her for Christmas, each stem a different color, which made them perfect for a party. Nobody got confused which glass belonged to whom.

  I peeled the foil wrapper off the bottle and tugged on the cork. Pop! Everyone cheered. Foam bubbled up the neck and threatened to spill over. Quickly I poured the frothy wine into the glasses. We each took one, even David.

  Cinnamon raised hers in a toast. “To Cary!”

  “To Dad!” I said and sipped my wine.

  “And to our friendly fisherman with the hidey-hole,” Cinnamon added. “Cary, for the record, I never thought you were guilty.”

  “Yeah, right
,” Dad gibed.

  “I didn’t,” she pleaded. “I had to do my job.”

  “Good thing you have other suspects,” I said. “You do, I assume?”

  She nodded curtly, matter closed.

  Not so fast. “Speaking of witnesses”—I took another sip of wine and eyed my aunt—“do you want to tell her what Flora said, or shall I?”

  Cinnamon perched on the chair fitted with yellow pillows and set her drink on the coffee table. “Go on.”

  “Flora Fairchild was in the shop today,” Aunt Vera said. “What she said clears D’Ann Davis of murdering Sylvia. D’Ann was busy helping Nurse Noreen that morning.”

  “D’Ann isn’t a suspect,” Cinnamon said.

  “She isn’t?” Aunt Vera peeked at Lola.

  “Look,” Cinnamon said, “I know D’Ann has a very strong motive. She’s in dire financial straits, and she blames Sylvia for ruining her property value, but she was seen on her spiritual walk by two gardeners.”

  Well how about that! Cinnamon had tracked down witnesses that I’d suggested.

  “On the other hand,” I said, playing the devil’s advocate, “I’m not convinced D’Ann is innocent.”

  “Jenna,” my aunt cried.

  “I’m not. D’Ann wears a mask when she walks. Cinnamon, are the gardeners positive it was D’Ann on that walk and not her assistant standing in for her? She and her assistant are about the same size.”

  Cinnamon cocked her head.

  “You might ask Noreen,” I said. “Flora said D’Ann and the nurse sat down to tea, but Flora didn’t see D’Ann take off the mask. Flora only watched for a minute, so—”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Flora mentioned Ava Judge, too,” Aunt Vera said.

  “True,” I said and explained that Flora saw Ava in the neighborhood at about the time of the murder. I mentioned that Ava had her hair pinned up with a hair stick. “Tito saw her, too.”

  “Martinez?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Yes. I told you—” I halted. I hadn’t related what Tito told me at the pole-bending event because Cinnamon had been unavailable, and when she finally did call me back, we discussed Ava’s diary. Quickly I recapped how Tito was delivering newspapers that morning, covering for his cousin.